


the mind-body problem

by firebrands



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Tony Stark, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Iron Man 1, Journalism, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, POV Tony Stark, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has Trust Issues, Top Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:19:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23873800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebrands/pseuds/firebrands
Summary: Steve is a reporter for the New York Bulletin, and one day he's assigned a story that might be just above his pay grade. To find out the truth, he's got to speak to the man implicated: Tony Stark.A canon-divergent fic where Steve is not captain america, but Tony is still Tony Stark. Set around the same time as Iron Man 1.*please turn on show creator's style!!!thank you to jen/ishipallthings and Publisher021 for the beta :)also, the rating is for future chapters.fill for mystony bingoprompt: off the record
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 144
Kudos: 189





	1. Chapter 1

Steve stares at the card in his hands. It's just a little lighter than cream, almost white; dark letters embossed, sans-serif. PEPPER POTTS.

He'd met Ms. Potts a month or so ago, in a conference that was supposed to be attended by the famous Tony Stark. Steve's been in the energy beat long enough not to expect attendance, but he does know to take notice when she appears. Potts is the only direct line to Stark, and he needs to speak to him, at least if the mountain of research he’s done is true. Steve’s done his fair share of investigative reporting—but it’s never been related to what this could be, and this could be… Steve takes a deep breath, steadying himself and stopping his train of thought.

“This should probably be lodged under the nation beat, Pete,” he’d said, earlier that day when the editorial team had met to discuss their longer-form stories.

“They’re full up with the Stern inquiry,” Pete, Steve’s editor, said. He didn’t even look up from his notebook as he spoke. “We’re short on hands for this. And you’ve covered Stark long enough.”

“I’ve _barely_ covered Stark, I haven’t even met him,” Steve said.

“Do you not want the story?” Pete’s tone was sharp. Annoyed.

“Of course I want the story!” Steve huffed. “But I don’t want any of those guys taking it from me midway just because the senate hearing ends early. So.”

“Yeah, okay. Fine.” Pete waved Steve off. “Good luck.”

Steve had never intended to end up in the energy beat—he barely knew enough about science on the get- go. But as it was in newsrooms, when one team was short staffed, the most junior staff had to fill in. That was almost three years ago, when Steve had started in the New York Bulletin, writing about culture, art. Next thing he knew he was given a press pass for a two-day green energy summit, then that was it. Steve Rogers, senior reporter for the Energy and Environment section of the New York Bulletin.

Steve taps the card on the table, bites his lip, then pulls out his phone to type out a message.

Pepper Potts - SI  
  
**Steve:** Good afternoon Ms. Potts, this is Steve Rogers from the New York Bulletin. We met last month, at the National Conference for Energy Sustainability. Would it be possible to set an interview with Mr. Stark? This is for a story on Stark Industry’s energy arm, but will also touch on other aspects of SI. Free to discuss over a call if you’d like. Thank you!  
  
**Pepper Potts:** What other aspects?  
  


Steve stares down at his phone.

Then stares some more.

He wasn’t expecting a reply, at least not any time soon; he was ready to go to their office and set up an appointment with her assistant’s assistant’s assistant, but instead, he’s here. In direct communication with the closest line to Tony Stark.

Pepper Potts - SI  
  
**Steve:** Good afternoon Ms. Potts, this is Steve Rogers from the New York Bulletin. We met last month, at the National Conference for Energy Sustainability. Would it be possible to set an interview with Mr. Stark? This is for a story on Stark Industry’s energy arm, but will also be discussing other aspects of SI. Free to discuss over a call if you’d like. Thank you!  
  
**Pepper Potts:** What other aspects?  
  
**Steve:** Hi Ms. Potts, thanks for the quick reply. We’d also like to discuss the funding for Stark energy projects.  
  
**Pepper Potts:** Full up this month. How is April 16?  
  


Steve doesn’t even bother checking his schedule before accepting the appointment. He lets out a shaky breath. This seems too good to be true. Just like that—he checks the timestamps of their messages—in the span of 2 minutes, he’s secured an interview with one of the richest and most powerful men in the country.

He needs to find something to wear.

* * *

Steve sucks on his bottom lip as the elevator begins its ascent. Steve checks his bag for his recorder, notebook, and pen. He checked it twice before leaving the office, once again in the cab, and lastly once more as he pulled out his wallet to hand over his ID for a security pass.

He’s not usually nervous; he’s met his fair share of C-suite executives before. But he’s heard about Stark, about how he behaves during interviews in the few time he grants them. Flippant, wilfully obtuse, and too wildly charismatic for you to do anything about it at the moment. Disarming, his friend from other papers had said simply. Another suggested that Steve check his questions before agreeing to end the interview, because Stark had the talent to take you for a ride you never asked to go on, and make you happy to be on it all the while.

The elevator doors slide open to an office bathed in the afternoon light. Pepper Potts is standing at the entrance, and reaches out to shake Steve’s hand.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Rogers,” she says, smiling down at him.

“You too,” Steve says, shifting his bag on his shoulder. “Thanks for setting this up. We’re really happy to be able to interview Mr. Stark.”

Ms. Potts nods, and gestures towards large double doors at the end of the carpeted hallway. “Let’s go,” she says, and Steve follows, fighting the urge to rifle through his bag again, just once more.

Ms. Potts knocks on the door and peeks her head in. “It’s Steve Rogers from the New York Bulletin.”

The beat, then the door swings wide open to reveal Tony Stark. “Hey Steve, nice to meet you.” He extends his hand, and Steve shakes it.

Here’s the thing about Steve, he realizes glumly: he’s always been very good at recognizing things that are aesthetically pleasing. It’s why he initially chose to focus on art and culture. It’s why he can’t help but feel a little overwhelmed by how absolutely gorgeous Tony Stark actually is. Sure, he’s seen photos, and seen Stark from a distance in the few times he’d deigned to make an appearance at events. But seeing him here now, dressed in a crisp white dress shirt—top three buttons undone and sleeves rolled up—Steve can’t help but feel a little helpless when faced with such immediate beauty.

Stark directs him to a sitting area. “Coffee? Tea?” he asks, taking a seat directly across Steve.

“Tea is fine,” Steve says, and Stark nods at Pepper, who nods back. Steve sets down his bag and pulls out the tools of the trade: his recorder, his notebook, his pen.

“Your office looks lovely,” Steve says, hazarding small talk.

“Thank you. It was all Pepper,” Stark says, leaning back on the couch, relaxing.

Without thinking, Steve inches forward—then he catches himself and tries to settle into his chair nonchalantly.

“Is that a Newman?” Steve asks, nodding at the black and white painting behind Stark.

“Hm?” Stark furrows his brow, then follows Steve’s line of sight. “Ah, is it?” He smiles a little to himself, then looks up when the door opens, and a man walks in with two steaming cups.

They remain silent as their drinks are placed in front of them. Tony takes a sip of what Steve assumes to be an espresso.

Steve clears his throat. “So, Mr. Stark. I’ll begin recording now, if you don’t mind?”

“I don’t,” Stark says, placing his cup carefully back on its saucer. It doesn’t make a sound.

Steve doesn’t want to face why he’s cataloging all of this. Instead, he nods, turns on his recorder, and asks Tony: “Let’s start with when you first launched the energy arm of SI. Can you tell me about the thought process and rationale for it?”

Stark nods, leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees.

Steve catches a whiff of Stark’s perfume. He swallows, and focuses on his pen poised on top of his notebook, ready to write.

“What are the real questions you want to ask, Steve?” Stark tilts his head a little, clearly assessing Steve.

Steve frowns. “These are the questions I’d like to ask, Mr. Stark.”

Stark sighs. “It was in ‘99 when we first began investing in R&D for more sustainable industries.”

As the interview goes on, Steve feels less and less inclined to be on his guard; Stark responds to his questions directly and completely. It’s likely because he’d been prepared by his team, but it’s nice to know that Stark isn’t the asshole everyone paints him to be. But then again, it could also just be something Steve’s gotten used to at this point: Stark doesn’t see him as a threat. No one ever does. That’s why Steve’s so good at getting scoops over other reporters, overzealous and loud and brash, always angling for an interesting story. No one ever expects Steve, quiet and small, to go straight for the jugular.

When Steve gets to his last question, he pauses to take a breath.

_There have been allegations that SI’s energy business is just a front. I’d like to know what you think of those allegations._

Steve asks the question.

If he hadn’t been watching Stark so closely, he would’ve missed the barely perceptible tightening of Stark’s jaw, or the way he pushes his glasses up his nose, fully covering his eyes, now.

“Allegations are just that,” Stark says, and Steve finally sees the flippancy everyone had warned him about. “If there’s any basis to them, then whoever’s saying this should be talking to my lawyers.”

Steve nods, scratching Stark’s words onto his pad. “Anything else?” Steve asks, because Stark’s been much more verbose than that in the past half-hour they’d been speaking.

“So this is what the song and dance has been about,” Stark says, smirking.

Steve feels his hackles rise, and he shakes his head. “I am doing a story on SI’s energy business. It’ll be celebrating a decade at the start of next year,” he says, keeping his voice level. “But in the course of my research, I came across these sentiments. I think it’s only fair that I ask your opinion on them,”

The smirk on Stark’s face stays in place. “Fair,” he says, arching his eyebrow. “Sure,” he says, his tone a touch condescending.

Worry pools in Steve’s belly; he can’t afford to be on Stark’s bad side, not if he wants to still cover SI events. “Have you heard these allegations before?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Stark responds, shrugging. “But I figure Hammer’s got something to say about it.”

The thought _had_ crossed Steve’s mind, but it seemed baseless to bring up. He thinks back on the massive Excel sheet he had worked on, cross-referencing numbers and seeing how they didn’t add up. Maybe Stark doesn’t know—and that hypothesis, well. It tracks.

“He doesn’t,” Steve says. “Not about your energy arm, at least,” he adds, smiling at Stark and hoping that he gets the joke.

Stark snorts, and that seems to put him in better spirits. “Yeah, and now you’re going to ask what I’m working on, huh?”

Steve bites back a grin. “Well, Mr. Stark, I wasn’t. But now that you bring it up…”

Stark chuckles, then motions to Steve’s recorder.

“Off the record, then,” Steve agrees, and someone in Stark’s PR department definitely dropped the ball on this, because off the record isn’t _real_. It’s not as if people can just pretend they didn’t hear something, and sure, Steve isn’t going to include this in the story, but he’ll know, and sometimes, that’s all it takes.

“We’re in the testing phases for a new missile,” Stark says, and then there seems to be a real spark in Stark’s eyes, as if finally he’s awake.

“What’s new about it?” Steve asks, tucking his pen into the binding of his notebook. He’s half-afraid to look up at Stark again, luminous with excitement and impossibly more gorgeous. Now that the interview is truly done, it seems like his traitorous brain lets go over its tight grip of professionalism.

“Oh, Steve, it’s magnificent. I developed this new repulsor technology that—” Stark catches himself. “You’re sure you work for the Bulletin, right?” he asks, scrutinizing Steve closely.

Steve holds up his press ID. “No corporate espionage here,” he says.

Stark laughs, eyes crinkling up, and Steve wants to reach out and touch him, wants to make him laugh again like that. Instead, he grips his notebook just a little bit tighter.

* * *

Two weeks later, Steve is at a Stark Industries event. It’s about something called “Intelli-Crops” which Steve hates the name of, but he can’t help but feel impressed by the science behind it.

Steve is even more impressed (so much so that he nearly drops his drink) when Tony Stark walks out on stage to explain the product himself. Stark is singular in the way he immediately draws all the attention in the room; he walks across the stage and gestures as the presentation flows behind him. Only after a few seconds of watching Stark does Steve realize with a jolt that he isn’t recording Stark’s speech. He pulls out his notebook and takes notes, eyes fixed on Stark’s muscular form all the while.

Steve is still standing by the bar, going through his notes and double checking the press release included in the media packet when he feels a presence beside him.

“Steve Rogers. Fancy seeing you here.”

Steve’s head snaps up at the voice he’d gotten very familiar with as he’d spent hours transcribing their conversation. Then he’d listened again for good measure, just to make sure he didn’t miss anything. And if he listened to Stark’s voice sometimes in the privacy of his apartment then that’s nobody’s business but his own.

“Mr. Stark,” Steve says, turning to him. “I can’t help but say the same to you.”

“Well it _is_ a Stark Industries event,” Stark answers, eyebrow cocked.

“That didn’t seem to matter much in all the other events I’d attended,” Steve says, snorting a little.

“You wound me,” Stark says.

“I’m sure you can afford the treatment,” Steve says, downing the last of his whiskey. It’s his second of the night, which means he’s had enough. He’s already pretty loose at it is, palling around with Stark like he isn’t _Tony Stark, Billionaire Genius Extraordinaire_. He sets down his glass and nods at Stark. “It was nice seeing you, Mr. Stark,” he says, extending his hand.

Stark pouts. “What, no follow up questions for me?”

Steve very nearly says, _how about I follow you up to your room instead_ but he still has a grasp on reality. Instead, he shakes his head. “Thank you for the excellent presentation, booze, and dinner, Mr. Stark.”

“Call me Tony, Steve,” Stark huffs. “The program’s done, doesn’t that mean you’re off the clock?”

Steve levels Stark with a look. “How do you think reporters work?”

“Dunno, really,” Stark says, and Steve has a feeling that this isn’t Stark’s first drink of the night. Somehow, that makes him feel a bit braver. He shifts his gaze and looks around the room, worried that Stark will notice that he’s staring.

“But I’d like to learn, if you’ll tell me.”

Steve’s gaze snaps back to Stark, cheeks heating up at the comment and the way Stark’s tone is just a little shy of innuendo.

“I—” Steve stammers. He doesn’t know what to do with that, with _flirting_ , has never known what to do, really, and Bucky is too far away for him to ask.

Steve’s immediate reaction when in this position is _run._ “Well, Mr. Stark,” he says, trying again to keep his voice even.

“It’s Tony,” Stark frowns. “Seriously, it kills me every time you call me that.”

Steve scrunches up his face. “Okay, Tony. It was nice chatting with you, but I need to send this story in so it makes tomorrow’s paper.”

Stark sighs, then immediately brightens like he has an idea. He turns to Steve with a smile. “How about,” he pauses, resting his hand on Steve’s arm, just above his elbow. “How about you type up your story in my office, and we keep drinking there?”

There are many thoughts that spring to Steve’s mind. First, is that this is a great way to build a relationship with a source. Second, Stark’s hand is warm against the thick fabric of Steve’s shirt. Third, and this is (un)fortunately what spills out of his mouth: “Why me? There are so many other people you could drink with here.”

Stark snorts, as if Steve has said something stupid, which is annoying. “Other people are boring. You’re interesting,” Stark says, like that explains everything. “Let’s go.”

So they go.

Stark’s office floor is dark when they arrive, but lights turn on as they walk towards his office. Steve looks around, wondering who’s flipping the switches, then sees Stark’s fingers dancing along his keyboard, which is answer enough.

Stark motions to the couch, and a strange sense of deja vu floats into Steve’s mind as he settles in, pulling out his laptop.

Stark busies himself by making drinks: “Neat or on the rocks?”

“Neat,” Steve answers, not looking up from his laptop as he types. Nervous energy is beginning to build in his belly, and he won’t admit to himself why he’s so intent on immediately finishing this story. Thankfully he’d gotten to start it midway through the program.

“A man after my own heart,” Stark says before plopping down jovially beside Steve on the couch, handing Steve a drink before taking a sip of his own.

“ _That’s_ your laptop?” Stark asks, frowning down at Steve’s beat up ThinkPad.

“Office-issued,” Steve answers. “And I like the red button.”

“He likes the red button,” Stark murmurs to himself, disbelief clear in his tone.

They’re silent for a while, the only sounds of the room are Steve’s fingers on the keyboard. Beside him, Stark scrolls through his phone.

“So walk me through your process,” Stark says, setting his phone down and turning to look at Steve.

Steve takes a drink to steady himself. “Well,” he says, still not looking up as he types. “Right now I’m just plugging in some quotes from your presentation.”

Stark hums in response. “You memorized what I said?”

“What? No,” Steve holds up his notebook. “I wrote it down.”

Stark puts down his drink and peers closely at the page. “I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but you have awful handwriting.”

A laugh bursts out of Steve, unbidden, and Tony smiles in response. “Seriously though, shorthand?”

Steve can’t help but feel a little buzz go through him, but of course Stark knows what shorthand is, he’s a genius.

“Yeah, I taught myself in college,” Steve answers.

“That’s really cool,” Stark says. “Can I see more?”

Steve shrugs and hands his notebook over. “I’m almost done,” he says.

“No rush,” Stark replies, but he’s not looking at Steve anymore. He flips through Steve’s notebook, and Steve focuses on finishing his story instead of getting jealous over pieces of paper.

Another drink later and Steve triumphantly shuts his laptop. “Sent!” he crows, and downs the rest of his whiskey.

Stark grins at him. “Congratulations!” He says. “I hope you wrote something nice about me.”

“Of course I did. You let me use your WiFi,” Steve says, matching Stark’s grin with his own.

“If only your colleagues were so easily swayed,” Stark says, sighing dramatically.

Steve huffs out a laugh, putting away his laptop. “Well, it’s hard to write badly about you when it comes to what you’re doing for sustainability,” he admits.

“Is that so?”

Steve shrugs. “I follow the story. So far what you’ve been telling good ones.” The whiskey is getting to his head, but he still has control over himself not to say more, not to pry and allude to what he’d been uncovering.

Besides, just like Stark said earlier: he’s off the clock, now. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself, trying to focus instead on the heat radiating off Stark, flushed pink from the alcohol. He’s strikingly gorgeous, no matter the setting, but to know that only Steve is seeing him like this, in this moment—it makes Steve feel reckless. It’s a good feeling.

Stark nods, trying to look sage. It makes Steve laugh, again. It’s ridiculous, really.

“So, Steve Rogers,” Stark says.

A beat passes.

“So, Tony Stark,” Steve prompts, teasing.

Stark’s gaze snaps to his. “Cheeky,” he accuses.

“Drunk,” Steve says just as quickly.

Stark laughs. “God, who _are_ you? Walking in here and sassing me like this,” Stark says, more to himself.

Steve’s thankful that the desk light is the only thing illuminating the room; he hopes it hides the heat in his cheeks.

“Well, I have been writing about energy and the environment for the Bulletin for the past three years,” he ventures.

Stark turns to him, a pleasant quirk to his lips. He nods. “And before that?”

Steve snorts. “I don’t know, why does it matter?”

“I just want to get to know you, is all,” Stark says airily, before finishing the rest of his drink.

Stark may be relaxed about this, but Steve can’t help but feel that tension has settled in the air. He knows better to sit any closer to Stark—he’s heard those stories, too. The man’s just as much a philanthropist as he is a philanderer, and Steve would never be stupid enough to get in bed with someone like him. Not that Steve has indicted Stark on his ways, but that—he’s one of the most important men in America. Steve can’t afford to get wrapped up in all that and manage to uphold journalistic integrity.

Still, it’s not like he _has_ to get wrapped up in that, he reasons with himself. It could be a one-off, and neither of them would ever speak about it again, and he could go on to cover events that Stark would never show up for anyway.

Of course, that’s all to say that Stark is attracted to him, too. Which is impossible, of course, but then again—why else would he have invited Steve up to his office, made him drinks? Why else is his knee pressed against Steve’s thigh, legs spread open tantalizingly?

Steve swallows.

“Maybe another time,” he says, motioning to get up. Stark grabs his wrist, sending a jolt through Steve. His hand is warm, and his fingers fit perfectly around Steve’s wrist.

“Look, Steve,” Stark says, looking away for a moment and then up to meet Steve’s gaze. “Tell me if i’m reading this wrong, but…”

Stark shifts a little closer and Steve can smell his cologne, rich and heady mixed with the smell of whiskey. His hand slides up Steve’s arm and gently cups Steve’s jaw.

Steve reminds himself to breathe.

Stark’s thumb strokes his cheek.

The world is magnificently silent. Steve isn’t imagining it when he hears the soft rustle of Stark’s clothes as he moves even closer, and Steve’s eyes flutter shut when their lips finally meet.

Stark’s lips are soft, and the kiss is gentle, almost tentative. It ends too quickly, and Steve chases after Stark as he pulls away, crashing their lips together, parting his mouth open, swiping his tongue along Stark’s. It’s electric, the slide of Stark’s lips against his, the hard press of Stark’s body as Stark leans over him, pushes him down onto the couch.

But Steve has another idea in mind, shifting and swinging a leg over Stark’s lap to straddle him.

“Fucking hell, Steve,” Stark moans when he pulls away.

Steve blushes, and kisses him again before he can say anything else that could be embarrassing.

Stark runs his hand through Steve’s hair, then tugs his head back sharply so he can kiss down Steve’s throat.

“Ah, Mr. St—”

Stark tuts, and bites on Steve’s neck just for good measure. “What did I say you should call me?” He licks the swath of skin, soothing it, and making Steve’s hips buck in pleasure.

“Tony,” Steve breathes out, his vision blurring as Tony’s other hand slides around his waist and under his shirt. “Tony, Tony, _Tony_.”

Tony’s hand slides through Steve’s hair again, resting just above the base of his neck, “I like the way you say my name,” he murmurs, just before pulling Steve into another searing kiss. His other hand reaches up to grasp at the knot of Steve’s tie, then—Steve pulls away hastily.

“Oh my god,” he breathes out. “Tony—Mr. Stark. I—” Steve clambers off Tony’s lap, uncoordinated and clumsy. “I can’t, we shouldn’t,” he continues to blabber, bending down to pick up his bag. “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have,” he says, looking everywhere but Tony, frantically trying to get his bearings. He’s impulsive at best, and Tony’s lips were so soft, and he looked so beautiful under the dim glow of the lamplight, and Steve was more than two drinks in. He nearly stumbles over himself in his hurry to get to the door. Only then does he register through the din of alarm bells ringing in his head that Tony was speaking to him.

“Steve, Steve, wait,” Tony says, and Steve walks briskly down the unlit hallway towards the elevator.

Unfortunately, Tony catches up to him before the doors slide open.

“Sorry for coming on to you like that, I thought,” Tony says, scratching the back of his neck.

Steve curses himself for noticing how rumpled he looks, how his tie is askew. Steve very badly wants to kiss him again, wants to run his hands through Tony’s hair, see him messed up. Wants to hear Tony panting under him, wants to taste his skin, all of it—but he can’t.

He’s a reporter. If he does this, if word gets out—and even if word didn’t get out, how could he maintain any sort of professionalism?

“It’s not your fault,” Steve stammers, pressing the button for the elevator again. “ _I’m_ sorry for… all of it. I shouldn’t have come. I hope we can just put this past us and maintain our professional relationship.”

“Our professional relationship,” Tony parrots back.

The door to the elevator slides open.

“Good night, Mr. Stark,” Steve says, stepping in.

Tony is standing frozen in front of him, looking at Steve like a puzzle he can’t make out. It gives Steve some relief.

“Good night, Mr. Rogers,” he says, and with those two words, the relief is wiped from Steve. Still, it’s a small price to pay if it means he can just continue to do his work.

“It’s fine,” Steve says into the empty elevator cabin. “I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO i'm trying something new here, and let me know what you think, please, i would love feedback!!!
> 
> i am also once again putting myself through the mortifying ordeal of writing as i post (so i don't have the whole chapter 2 written out yet... i am getting there............), so i'd love to hear your thoughts on how this could go, lmao. what i can say is that chapter 2 finally has the bit that gives the fic this rating! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again to jen and emily for beta reading this for me!!! i'm so lucky know you both! :)

Tony drums his finger on his desk.

“What’s _wrong_ ,” Pepper groans.

“Wrong?” Tony asks, blinking away his stray thoughts of a certain blond who’d arrived into his life barely a month ago. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re thinking,” Pepper says icily. “I can feel you thinking all the way here.”

“Shouldn’t I be?” Tony asks, being difficult for the hell of it.

Pepper groans again, dragging a hand down her face in frustration.

“Something’s on your mind. Out with it.”

Tony hums and resumes drumming his fingers on the table.

“You have his number?”

“Who?” Pepper’s face always scrunches up like this when Tony jumps ahead of conversations.

Tony bites his bottom lip.

“Oh, no, Tony,” Pepper says after a moment, realization dawning on her. “That reporter?”

Tony begins to bite his nails.

“Tony, no.”

“But what if—I just want to get to know him!”

“That’s why you brought him up here?”

“Maybe!”

“And you didn’t get to know him enough…?”

Tony shoots Pepper an accusatory look. “Well, Pepper,” he says sarcastically, “who’s to say you ever really know someone, huh?”

Pepper rolls her eyes.

* * *

It takes another week of Tony’s frenetic energy grating at Pepper’s nerves before she slams her hand against Tony’s work desk and says, “enough already.”

She lifts her hands and under it, a slim piece of paper with the New York Bulletin Logo on it.

“Oh Pep, you do love me, don’t you,” Tony says, snatching up the card before Pepper changes her mind.

“Conditionally,” Pepper grouses as she leaves Tony’s workshop. She stops, her hand on the doorframe, and turns to Tony.

“Hey, I know I don’t have to tell you this,” she says, frowning a little. “But be careful with this one, Tony.”

Tony waves her off. “I’m just asking him to coffee.”

Pepper makes a small, disbelieving sound. “He’s—” Pepper stops. Tony’s pretty sure she’s about to say something silly, like _too smart for you_ , but thankfully she refrains. “Don’t underestimate him.”

Now it’s Tony’s turn to scoff. “What if I’m overestimating him, huh? What if he’s just a regular guy?”

Pepper arches her eyebrow. “Give me the card back, then.”

“Too late!” Tony crows, and Pepper laughs at him before shutting the door.

Tony holds up the card and reaches for his phone. Nervous excitement zings around him, the way it always does when he’s interested in someone.

Steve  
  
Hey steve, it’s Tony Stark. Pepper gave me your number  
  
Do you want to meet up for coffee sometime or something?  
  
I just feel like the last time we spoke  
  
Look you can say no I just really do want to get to know you  
  
Nothing more than that, if you don’t want  
  


Tony slams his phone down on his desk and pulls up the Jericho missile designs.

He wanted to type out more, but stopped when he’d seen how many messages he’d already sent. It was hard to put a pin on why he was acting out, poor impulse control notwithstanding. Attraction and shame swirled in his belly—but why was he interested, in the first place?

Steve was definitely something to look at: blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a profile that wouldn’t be out of place if it were carved out of marble and displayed in the Met. But it wasn’t just that. There was something in the way Steve spoke, the way he looked at Tony, like he could see him. Usually that would be scary. Truth be told, it should be; no one’s allowed to see Tony, not really, not _ever_. There’s too much at stake for him to be careless. And yet.

Maybe what really pushed him past the edge, Tony muses as he checks calibrations and checks to see if parts could get smaller or lighter, is that he’d said no even if he clearly wanted to keep going. That, and—much as it made Tony sound like a child—he wasn’t very used to being rejected.

Tony’s also very rarely had to question his position—his influence, when asking people out. He’s usually the one on the defensive, wary and suspicious of people’s motives for speaking to him. Aware of all the agendas people could have. Which is why he’s so unused to this, he rationalizes to himself. Asking doesn’t come naturally to Tony, not anymore. People give all the time.

“Sir?” JARVIS pipes up.

“What?” Tony asks, stopping from his calculations.

“You’re muttering. I’d just like to make sure I didn’t miss any commands.”

Tony bites down hard. “I wasn’t—you didn’t.” He sinks himself back into his design, cursing himself for being so pathetic. He could have anyone else. Right now, even. Whatever time it is, anyone is free for Tony Stark. He hates that Steve probably isn’t even trying to rile him up like this—but Tony’s never been good with impulse control.

Tony’s phone buzzes on the desk and Tony nearly jumps out of his chair in surprise.

Steve  
  
Hey steve, it’s Tony Stark. Pepper gave me your number  
  
Do you want to meet up for coffee sometime or something?  
  
I just feel like the last time we spoke  
  
Look you can say no I just really do want to get to know you  
  
Nothing more than that, if you don’t want  
  
**Today** 2:14 AM  
It’s late, Tony. Why are you still awake?  
  
I think I can meet you for coffee. How’s Wednesday?  
  


“GOOD!” Tony shouts at his phone. “IT’S TWO AM!!!” He shouts some more. He paces around for a bit, trying to calm himself before replying.

Steve  
  
**Steve:** It’s late, Tony. Why are you still awake?  
  
**Steve:** I think I can meet you for coffee. How’s Wednesday?  
  
**Tony:** Why are YOU still awake?  
  
**Tony:** Wednesday is good. are you a mocha or espresso person  
  
**Steve:** Writing. Hammer Tech event ended late.  
  
**Tony:** Ugh  
  
**Tony:** Why do you give him the time of day?  
  
**Steve:** Same reason I have to give you the time of day I guess.  
  
**Steve:** Oh that’s right. It’s my job.   
  
**Tony:** LOL. He’s pathetic. I’m going to read all of your articles about him now i hope you never wrote anything nice  
  
**Steve:** We strive to be unbiased.  
  
**Tony:** well it’s just me, so whats your biased opinion  
  
**Steve:** I’d rather not do that on the record.  
  
**Tony:** So it’s BAD!!! Nice.  
  
**Steve:** I’m not saying that.  
  
**Tony:** Not denying it either   
  
**Steve:** Ugh.   
  
**Steve:** I didn’t think there was a difference between mocha and espresso people.  
  
**Tony:** Are u kidding me? Milky chocolate coffee versus straight up coffee notes  
  
**Tony:** It’s different  
  
**Steve:** I didn’t expect you to be such an aficionado.  
  
**Tony:** You’ll find that i have a great many tastes, and refined ones, all of them  
  


Steve abruptly stops replying, and Tony feels very young when he scrolls through their messages to see if he’d said anything wrong.

Before he can begin to spiral, he gets a response.

Steve  
  
**Steve:** Guess i’ll have to wait and see, then. Good night, Tony. See you on Wednesday. Let me know which cafe you’d like?  
  
**Tony:** Yup! Good luck with the story  
  
**Steve:** Thank you.  
  


Tony sinks into his chair—he didn’t realize he was pacing—and lets out a content sigh.

“JARVIS,” he says, shutting his eyes and leaning his head back. “What’s the name of that place.”

“Marlin Cafe,” JARVIS supplies. “Downtown Manhattan. Would you like me to send Mr. Rogers—”

“No, none of that. I’ll do it,” Tony says, massaging his temples, suddenly exhausted. “Save progress. I’m heading up.”

* * *

Tony does his very best not to dress up for coffee with Steve. Is it his fault that all of his clothes look good on him? Technically yes. Still, he tries not to think too hard on it. So when he steps into the cafe, zeroes in on Steve, and sees the way Steve _appraises_ him, Tony can’t help but grin.

Steve sticks out his hand in greeting, a perfunctory gesture that Tony reciprocates. Tony wants to pull him close, but knows better. The cafe is only-half full, but it’s still a small cafe in New York—no one really cares that he’s Tony Stark, but people still pay attention.

“Want me to order for you?” Tony asks, noticing the empty table.

“I’ll have what you’re having,” Steve says, reaching into his back pocket for what Tony assumes to be his wallet.

“Please,” Tony says, waving him off. “I got this.”

“I really don’t—” Steve starts, but Tony’s already walking to the counter.

He comes back with two long blacks, one iced and one hot. “Not sure how you take yours, and I could drink either of them.”

Steve nods. “Thanks. I guess I’ll have the iced one.”

“Good choice,” Tony says, picking up the steaming mug and blowing on it before taking a sip. He sighs contentedly. “I’m glad you came to see me.”

Steve takes a tentative sip, the side of his lip curling up into a small smile at the taste. “Hard to say no to you,” Steve admits.

Tony snorts, and then laughs when Steve’s cheeks color.

“I hope you didn’t feel obligated,” Tony says. He presses hard on his knee, stopping his leg from bouncing up and down anxiously. It’s one of the few tells he’d never learned to shake.

“No!” Steve says, looking very earnest, his blush now faint on his cheeks. “Nothing like that at all.”

“That’s good,” Tony murmurs.

They’re silent for a moment, content to sip their coffee.

“I—” Steve starts. “I’m no good at this.”

Tony looks up from his coffee. “At what?”

“I’ve barely… I don’t really.” Steve’s jaw clenches. “Do you mind if I just—” he reaches into his bag and pulls out his reporter’s notebook and waves like it explains something.

“Are you going to take notes?” Tony laughs, half amused and half horrified.

“No, I—” Steve huffs and flips the pages. “I have notes.”

Tony bites back a smile that he’s sure will be embarrassingly fond. “Okay.”

The muscle in Steve’s jaw works as he reads through what he wrote, and Tony grips harder at his knee, fighting back a wild, abrupt wave of nausea.

“Okay,” Steve says, flipping his notebook shut with some finality. “Okay,” he says again, but this time more to himself.

“Okay,” Tony says, because he can never stop himself from teasing anyone.

At this, Steve snorts, and they share a laugh.. Tony wants it desperately to stretch to forever, only to end because he finally kisses Steve.

Steve takes a breath, then seems to steel himself. “Last Wednesday, when we last met,” he says. “I’m sorry that that happened.”

“Are you really?” Tony asks, mouth moving before his brain can attach a filter.

Steve seems taken aback.

“We can’t—no. I can’t do that,” he says. “With you,” he adds, before clenching his jaw again.

“I have to ask, though,” Tony says, leaning forward a little. He doesn’t miss that Steve mirrors his action. “Do you want to?”

Steve looks away. “It’s not about wanting.”

Tony crosses his arms over his chest. “Everything is about wanting.”

“I shouldn’t be… It’s going to be difficult. It’s going to get complicated,” Steve says, looking down at his glass.

Tony snorts. “Yeah, of course it is. Have you met me?”

Steve looks up at him, a sad smile on his lips. “Yes, and that’s the trouble.”

“You don’t even know if it’s trouble yet,” Tony says, which is a lie, because every single relationship he’s had has notoriously ended in that word: _trouble_. Still, something about Steve makes him want to hope. It’s a nice feeling.

“And we don’t know if the pros will outweigh the cons, either,” Steve says reasonably. He keeps Tony’s gaze, and it makes Tony feel like he’s being picked apart.

Tony sighs. “Can’t we just get to know one another? Surely that’s not crossing any of your ethical boundaries?”

“You don’t want to get to know me,” Steve says, looking away again.

The accusation hits Tony like a blow to the stomach. He fights down the urge to take Steve’s chin in his hands and turn Steve to face him when saying something so cruel.

Tony nods to himself. “I suppose it’s too unbelievable to you that I do,” he says. “You really think that I’m here to what—get you to fuck me?”

Steve closes his eyes and sighs. “Well, what else is there?”

Tony snorts. “Right. Of course. You’ve made your opinion of me quite clear.” Tony picks up his phone from the table and slots it into his pocket, then he drinks down the last dregs of his coffee. “Good afternoon, Mr. Rogers,” he says, and stands to leave.

Tony’s out on the sidewalk waiting for Happy when Steve catches up to him.

“Tony, wait,” Steve says, hand shooting out as if to hold Tony’s arm then falling limply to his side. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Tony shrugs. “Don’t know what else you could’ve meant. But it’s fine, you don’t need to apologize.”

“I really do,” Steve says, biting on his bottom lip. “You’re right. We don’t know each other. And I’m honestly just afraid of what it would mean if we do get to know each other—of what could happen between us.”

Tony raises his eyebrows in response, but says nothing more. He can physically feel the walls around himself stacking higher and higher.

Steve breathes out. “I _do_ want to get to know you, Tony. I do. But we’ll need to set up—” he moves his hands in the air as he tries to find the right words, and Tony finds it frightfully endearing. “Boundaries!” the word erupts out of Steve. “That’s what I was trying to say,” he adds softly.

Tony can’t help himself, but he laughs. “Compartmentalization. Got it,” he says.

“I’m serious,” Steve deadpans.

Tony grins. “Does it scare you that I am too?” he keeps his tone light, to make it sound like he’s teasing.

Of course, Steve sees right through it. “I suppose it should,” he says, frowning a little.

Tony huffs out a laugh, and as if on cue, Happy arrives.

“Perfect,” Tony says. “Let’s celebrate and have dinner.”

Steve’s mouth is pressed into a thin line. “Only if we split,” he says, but gets into the car regardless.

“How about we compartmentalize and I pay?” Tony continues to tease, but Steve laughs, so he counts it as a win. _Taking him apart is going to be delicious_ , he thinks. _He won’t know what hit him._

In the car, Steve reaches out to Tony, touches his wrist. “I really am sorry about what I said,” he says.

Tony tries not to let the relief telegraph too clearly. “I know,” he says with a laugh. “Nice to see you squirm, though.”

“Ugh,” Steve groans, but smiles at Tony before looking out the window.

Tony tells Happy to bring them to Silver Lotus, a nice restaurant in Chinatown. When they get there, Tony notices that Steve perks up.

“Oh, I’ve been here before!” Steve says. “They have great—”

“Shrimp dumplings with spicy noodles,” Tony finishes.

Steve furrows his brow, biting back a smile. “Yeah, and they have a cool mural across the kitchen.”

“I know,” Tony says, smiling as he opens the door for Steve.

Once they’re seated, Steve sees the grin on Tony’s face then looks away, trying and failing to hide his blush. After a moment, he turns back to Tony and frowns. “You’ve read what I’ve written,” he says, like it’s something worth accusing Tony over.

“What can I say?” Tony asks, shrugging his shoulders grandly. “You’re a good writer.”

Steve inhales deeply, and looks like he’s about to say more, but then the waitress arrives and they talk about what to order, instead.

* * *

The past month has Tony feeling like he’s walking on clouds. It’s a pleasant feeling, having Steve to talk to at night when they’re both leaning into their proclivity for sleeplessness. They’ve spent every Saturday afternoon together, first for coffee, then for dinner, and on occasion, a drink. Steve’s never stayed for more than a glass or two, but each time leaves Tony with desire curling tight in his belly. He’s never been one to yearn, but oh, with Steve, it’s getting dangerously close.

At night, sometimes, he finds himself thinking of touching Steve’s wrist, lacing their fingers together, or running his hand through Steve’s hair, watching as his eyes widen. He likes to imagine the soft sound of breath as Tony kisses his neck.

It gets harder to stop himself when he catches Steve looking at him, intent heavy in his gaze. Want, attraction, _thirst_. Tony usually responds by giving Steve a smile and a once over, which results in a flush blooming on Steve’s cheeks.

He’s found out a good deal about Steve, too: how his friend Bucky is in the army, how Steve briefly considered following him, but ultimately stayed to take care of his mom. He knows about what Steve does when he has weekends off (go to galleries, walk his friends’ dogs). He’s finally learned how Steve likes his coffee (he doesn’t), his favorite art movement (because he has one, of course [it’s abstract expressionism]). It’s amazing, all that he’s learned. It helps that Steve is so easy to listen to.

One afternoon, Tony accidentally (on purpose) passes by a small gallery. They spend over an hour inside, and after some goading, Steve begins talking about the artists, most of whom he’d covered when they were still making a name for themselves. It’s a different world that Steve lives in. His interests are so diametrically apart from Tony’s, who knows a pretty thing when he sees it but can’t explain why, doesn’t care to. And for all Tony’s genius, it’s surprising how Steve has such a command over the language.

“Aren’t you happy with the ice cream?” Tony had asked him as they sat on a bench in Central Park, people watching.

“Yeah, I am,” Steve replied, before casually dragging his tongue along the cone where some of the ice cream had melted down.

Tony stared, filthy images populating his brain almost immediately.

Steve turned to him, curious. “Why?”

Tony snapped back to reality. “Oh, you didn’t say,” he said, dumbly.

Steve snorted. “Sorry I wasn’t so effusive enough,” he said sarcastically.

Tony did a double take. “Did you just say effusive?”

“Yeah, why?” Steve licked up the cone again. Tony’s mouth went dry.

“Nothing,” Tony said, clearing his throat. “No one really says that,” he added, before focusing on his ice cream and watching two old men play checkers.

Tony knows now, too, that Steve lives in an apartment in Brooklyn, in the old Brooklyn fire headquarters. He’d dropped Steve off twice, now, but has never asked to see it. Steve hadn’t offered, either.

It’s almost ten in the evening when Tony slides into a free parking space in front of Steve’s building.

Steve is frowning.

“You okay?” Tony asks, because he’s gotten a glimpse of Steve’s moods, too—when deadlines are tight, or stories are difficult, or when he doesn’t hear from Bucky during their scheduled calls. He turns quiet, sentences clipped. He’s apologetic, always, explains that it’s not Tony’s fault.

“Do you,” Steve starts. He bites his lip.

Tony can’t help but stare, but shakes himself out of it.

“Do you want a drink?” Steve says. His gaze is fixed on the exterior of the building.

“Sure, where to?” Tony asks, shifting the gears.

“Upstairs,” Steve says. “In my apartment?”

Tony stares. Long enough, apparently, for Steve to turn and look at him.

“Oh,” Tony manages, realizing that he hasn’t said anything. “Yeah, sure.” He shifts the gears again and cuts the engine.

He wants to ask, _are you sure?_ But why shoot a gift horse in the mouth, right?

They’re silent as they exit the car, walk up to the door, and wait for the elevator. Tony can’t think of a joke to make, his mind full of anxious excitement. Not for any funny business, mind—just. To be given the opportunity to see more of Steve; another layer peeled back.

He can already see Pepper in his mind’s eye, getting ready to give a lecture. But before the thought can run away with him, the elevator doors slide open and Steve unlocks the door to his apartment.

It’s nice, considering how old the building is. It’s neat and sparsely decorated, but it feels—homey. Lived in.

Tony opens his mouth to say so, but Steve speaks first.

“Whiskey?”

“Yes,” Tony says, turning around to look around some more. “I like it,” he says. He doesn’t speak loudly enough to make it weird, because it’s kind of a weird thing to say, right?

Tony turns to check if Steve heard him, and finds Steve smirking as he pours them both a drink.

“Oh, vinyls,” Tony says. “Of course you’d have vinyls.”

Steve grunts behind him. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”

Tony chuckles as he picks up a battered copy of Fleetwood Mac’s _Rumors_. “I’m just saying that it tracks.”

“Too low-tech for you?” Steve asks, plucking the record from Tony’s hands and pushing a glass of whiskey in its place. “Want me to play it?”

“No, and no,” Tony says, taking a sip and setting his glass down on the coffee table as he begins to rifle through Steve’s collection.

“Fine,” Steve says, and Tony hears him plop down on the sofa.

Tony picks up another vinyl: _Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Rodgers and Hart Songbook._ “Jesus, Steve, are you 80? You like this?”

Steve makes an affronted sound. “You’re telling me you don’t like Ella?”

“Don’t like Ella,” Tony parrots, making a face. “I mean sometimes, sure, but you really have this?”

Steve groans settling beside him and taking a long pull of his whiskey. “I didn’t ask you up here to judge me!” He says, putting the record back on the rack.

Tony turns to tease Steve some more, and realizes instead how close they are.

“Well, what did you ask me up here for, then?” Tony asks, meeting Steve’s gaze. Tony licks his lips, and cheers internally when he sees Steve’s eyes flick down to track the movement.

Then, Steve blinks at him and stands up. “Just pick a record already,” he says grousing. He knocks back the rest of his drink and pours another.

Tony hums, taking another sip of his and flipping through. Since kissing seems to be out of the picture, he’ll settle with getting very acquainted with Steve’s taste in music.

They’re silent for a while as Tony searches, then his eyes land on a familiar record. “FINALLY,” Tony shouts, pulling it out. He flips open the record player and slips in the record.

“At least we can agree on The National,” Steve says, bemused. He taps the space beside him on the couch, and Tony sits, happily nodding his head to the [beat](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLiN-7mukU_RE_Ym_q5deAZk5zR6vh0DGV).

They’re quiet, and it’s one of the few times in his life when Tony doesn’t feel the urge to fill up the silence. He feels strangely content. He takes another sip of his drink as he tries to put his finger on why.

Thankfully, Steve has something else in mind. He puts his glass down on the table and turns to Tony, his knee bumping Tony’s thigh.

“I’ve really liked spending time with you,” Steve says.

“Me too,” Tony says, relaxing back onto the chair a little. He valiantly tries not to worry about what this could mean.

“I’m glad,” Steve says, patting Tony’s knee. It’s absolutely embarrassing, how delighted Tony feels at the touch. Still, it does little to assuage the anxiety beginning to brew in his belly.

“So, I have a question,” Steve says, looking very serious.

“I have an answer,” Tony says, grinning through his fear, trying to keep his tone teasing.

Steve rolls his eyes, but he smiles, so Tony keeps smiling. Steve tries to school his face back into seriousness, and sort of gets there—Tony holds back a laugh, more eager to find out what Steve wants to ask.

“I wanted to know,” Steve starts, then breathes out. “How you’d feel if I wanted to kiss you.”

In a supreme, almost saintly, show of restraint, Tony does not immediately launch himself off the chair and kiss Steve senseless.

Instead, he takes Steve’s hand in his. Tony laughs a little to himself, by how earnest he feels, before he says, “I’d like that very much.”

Steve nods to himself. “Good,” he says.

A beat passes, then nervous laughter bubbles out of the both of them, and before Tony can even get his bearings Steve’s lips are on his, soft and insistent. Steve licks his lips open, shifts so he’s sitting on Tony’s lap, groaning each time they pull apart to catch their breath.

“You’re not going to run out on me again, are you?” Tony asks, hands on Steve’s hips now, holding him in place. He lets out a shaky breath when Steve shifts his hips a little. “Are you—you’re sure?”

“Compartmentalization,” Steve breathes out, before leaning in and capturing Tony’s mouth in a searing kiss.

Steve begins to kiss down Tony’s neck, undoes Tony’s shirt with his left hand while his right worms under his shirt, splays flat against his stomach. “Yes,” Tony moans out, when Steve bites down on the skin at the juncture between his neck and collarbone, “compartmentalization, good,” Tony murmurs, brain leaking out of his ears as Steve’s hand moves to tweak a nipple.

“Eloquent,” Steve laughs, his breath hot against his jaw, right before he licks the shell of Tony’s ear.

Tony groans. “Shut up,” he says, before slipping his hands under Steve’s shirt and sliding it off him.

Steve looks up from where he’s, what Tony hopes, about to suck his nipple. “Make me,” Steve says, eyes bright.

Tony groans, before pulling Steve up for a kiss.

* * *

Tony doesn’t date—at least, not very often. And when he does, it’s never been like this. All the others were so excited to be simply _seen_ with Tony, happy to hold his hand, press a kiss to his cheek wherever they were.

With Steve, they continue as if they’re just friends: a constant, invisible barrier between them called plausible deniability. Not that Tony has a problem with that, it’s just different. That’s part of what makes it so fun, finding ways to sneak a kiss, or learning ways to communicate by a well-timed look.

“Tony,” Pepper said warningly, as she arrived in Tony’s penthouse almost immediately after Tony had shut the door. Tony’s clothes were still rumpled, but at least he’d squeezed in a shower.

“I’m just changing then I’ll be there!” Tony said, walking briskly to his room.

Pepper followed, a frown on her face.

“Please tell me this isn’t Rogers.”

“It isn’t Rogers,” Tony said simply, slipping out of his clothes and rummaging for a suit he felt like wearing.

Pepper sighed and rolled her eyes. “Please do not tell him anything confidential,” she said.

“I haven’t, and I won’t,” Tony replied, buttoning up his shirt. “Choose a tie for me?”

Pepper released another put-upon sigh and pulled out a royal blue tie to go with his gray suit.

“Nice,” Tony remarked.

“If you keep making me worry I’m going to make you pay for my botox,” she said, batting Tony’s hands away as she slipped the tie over his shoulders and began knotting.

“Aren’t I already?” Tony teased.

Pepper leveled him with a look and tightened the tie.

“Okay! I’m not. It’s actually…” Tony lets out a choked laugh. “It’s really nice, Pep.”

Pepper nodded at him, disbelief clear in her countenance. “Just be careful.”

“I’ll try,” Tony said, and he meant it.

* * *

Being careful, it turns out, involved Tony bringing Steve to his workshop.

Steve has been to Tony’s penthouse a handful of times, enough for him to feel comfortable enough to prop his legs up on Tony’s very expensive coffee table.

They’re watching something inane on the TV, Steve’s hand stroking lazy circles on Tony’s thigh. It makes Tony feel lightheaded.

“Do you want to do something cool?” Tony blurts out, because now feels like the perfect time to show Steve his workshop. That, and he needs a breather between rounds of sex; he’s not as spry as he used to be.

“Mmm,” Steve hums, leaning a little closer to Tony. “I wouldn’t really call you _cool_ , but okay,” he says, pressing a kiss to Tony’s collarbone. It sends a full body shiver through Tony’s body, and he lets out a strangled yelp.

“Steve, sweetheart, darling, please, I am pushing forty here,” Tony says, almost immediately breathless as Steve begins to kiss and lick down his neck, his hand sliding up Tony’s thigh, dangerously close to where his mouth was, just a few minutes ago.

Steve laughs, his breath hot against Tony’s sternum. “Okay, old man. What’s cool?” he presses another quick kiss to Tony’s chest before pulling away.

It takes Tony a few seconds to catch his breath and have his pulse return to normal. “You’re a menace,” Tony says, without any heat. “Anyone who believes your good-boy shtick is a fool.”

Steve chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. “People in glass houses, Tony,” he murmurs, and Tony retaliates by flicking his ear.

“Come on,” Tony says, standing up and holding his hand. It’s disgusting, how thrilled he _still_ is when Steve takes it, and then walks down the stairs to his workshop.

“I can’t believe you actually had notes on how you could let me down gently,” Tony says, using his free hand to punch in the code.

Steve tiptoes to rest his chin on Tony’s shoulder. “I really did need them,” he says. “I’ve never been... well.” He presses a kiss to the skin just beneath Tony’s ear and retreats.

“Been what?” Tony asks, turning to face Steve.

Steve shakes his head, but he’s given away by a hint of pink on his cheeks. “Nothing,” he says, trying to laugh it off.

“What is it?” Tony asks, thumbing at Steve’s cheek, warm under his fingers.

“I’ve never been—on the receiving end of someone’s attentions?” Steve winces. “I mean I’ve, uh. Pursued people, don’t get me wrong.”

Tony bites his lip, nods, then pulls Steve in for a kiss. If Steve keeps speaking then Tony will feel _compelled_ to talk about how he feels, and he’d really rather not do that, ever.

“Come on,” Tony says, tugging on Steve’s hand and pushing the door open. “Welcome to heaven,” he says, once Steve has stepped into the workshop.

Steve stands very, very still. “Are you sure I’m allowed in here?”

“Yes,” Tony says, huffing out a laugh. “It’s not like I’ve displayed all of my designs for you to see. It’s just my workshop.”

“Ah, so I’ll be hiding all the bomb designs then,” JARVIS says, dryly.

Steve twitches beside Tony. “Who was that?” he asks, looking around the workshop.

“JARVIS,” Tony says, grinning. “My AI.”

Steve turns sharply to stare at Tony. “Your _what_.”

“My AI!” Tony says.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Rogers,” JARVIS says cheerfully.

“He keeps the place running for the most part,” Tony adds.

“Excuse me?” Steve says. He tugs his hand away from Tony’s to press to his temples. “Wait. Tony. I need a moment to—you have an AI. Running your household.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, laughing again. “Keep up.”

Steve sputters behind him, and then yelps when Dum-E rolls up to him and beeps.

“Is this JARVIS?” Steve asks, confused.

“No, _god_ , don’t insult JARVIS like that,” Tony says, leaning against his workbench. “That’s Dum-E.”

“Hello, Dummy,” Steve says, tentatively. Dum-E beeps in response.

“If this isn’t JARVIS, then where is he,” Steve says, sounding very close to being at the end of his rope.

“Everywhere,” Tony says, gesturing grandly. He cackles, for good measure.

Steve levels him with a look.

“Seriously!” Tony says, chuckling and beckoning Steve closer.

“Why don’t more people know about JARVIS?” Steve asks, still looking suspiciously around Tony’s workshop, as if half expecting a spectral form of Tony’s AI to materialize.

“Why do they need to know?” Tony asks, frowning. “He’s mine.”

“But—it’s, you’re. What?” Steve babbles, pressing a hand to his face.

Tony’s quiet, letting Steve try to get his thoughts together, and pulls Steve to sit on his lap.

After a moment, he whispers into Steve’s ear: “Cool enough?” he asks.

“Very,” Steve says, still sounding shell shocked.

Tony brightens. “Wanna play catch with Dum-E?”

* * *

They spend most of their weekends shacked up in Brooklyn, ordering pizza and drinking beers from a local brewery nearby. This is new to Tony, too, the small apartment, the community, how cozy it could feel, to be with someone.

That, and the way Steve rails him nearly to tears every time.

Tony had thought that the first time they’d fucked, rough and intense on Steve’s couch that first evening, was a fluke—that it was driven by desire that had been simmering for the month or so that they’d been spending together.

It was not a fluke.

Tony wants to give voice to these thoughts as Steve hovers above him, grinning wolfishly. Tony means to say, _I can’t fucking believe this, you are ruining sex with other people for me_ , but Steve crooks his fingers inside Tony just so, and Tony whimpers, instead.

Steve fucks Tony slow and deep, cradling Tony’s head against his chest with his fingers tangled in Tony’s hair. “I got you,” Steve whispers, voice rough from how deep he’d taken Tony’s cock earlier. “Let go for me.”

And Tony does, making a sound close to a wail when Steve bottoms out inside him.

“Honestly,” Tony says, breathless and covered in Steve’s cum.

Steve flops down beside him and makes a faint, inquisitive sound.

“Who gave you the fucking right to be this good in bed,” Tony says, all at once, then shuts his eyes. “Good night.”

He falls asleep to the sound of Steve’s soft laughter.

* * *

Tony’s overslept. Again.

“Fuck,” Tony says, sending a message to Happy to come pick him up. “Fuck!” he says again, just as his phone lets out a mournful beep and dies.

“You don’t have a charger here do you?” Tony asks, digging around Steve’s side table.

“Only for my iPhone,” Steve says, mouth full of toothpaste foam.

“I hate you,” Tony says fiercely to Steve’s iPhone. “I’m getting you a new phone,” he says, to Steve.

“Please don’t,” Steve says, popping his head out of the bathroom. “I don’t want to have to explain to people how I afforded it,” he says with a laugh.

“Do you have Pepper’s email address,” Tony says, beginning to panic. “I’m going to be late, she’s going to kill me, I was actually in a good mood this morning and I was excited for this meeting for the first time in my life,” he says, pulling on his pants.

“Yup, just use my laptop,” Steve says, and the room falls into silence, only disturbed by the sound of the shower.

Tony digs Steve’s laptop out of his bag and flips it open. “I can’t believe you don’t have a password,” Tony says to himself, waiting for it to boot up. “I should get you a new laptop,” he adds, uselessly.

“Also should look into longer battery life for the phones…” he mutters.

Tony gapes at the mess that is Steve’s desktop. It takes him a moment to find the browser icon, lost in the sea of “draft rexxon 1 - final” and “final draft FINAL 051808” and other versions of final drafts—before Tony clicks on the browser, his eyes land on something else.

“draft stark profile 061208” that was a few weeks ago. Tony thinks back, tries to remember if there was an event that he’d missed, but nothing comes to mind.

Tony furrows his brows, checks for the sound of the shower, then opens the file. As it loads (and it takes a while, because this is a shitty fucking _Lenovo ThinkPad_ , Tony thinks spitefully), Tony bites his lip. Maybe he should just turn off Steve’s laptop (or, throw it out the window, thus necessitating a Stark laptop) and wait for Happy outside.

Except, the window opens, and Tony’s never been very good with impulse control.

In bold letters is the headline of the story:

**The Tragedy of Tony Stark**

By Steven G. Rogers

The shock nearly bowls him over. He lets out a shaky breath, and begins to read.

 _What hasn’t been said about the infamous Tony Stark? A fair amount, apparently. While the world has been avidly watching the prolific weapons designer at work, then in turns, cavorting with the latest it-girls, there are a few surprises left in the son of the late Howard Stark_.

The story goes on to talk about his relationship with his father, how it shaped the way he sees the world—as something for him to fix. Then it goes on to his private life, the things he enjoys. There’s a subsection just about the bots he’d built, with some quotes from his college classmates.

Tony feels the bile rising in his throat as he realizes that while he’s been learning about Steve, Steve’s been learning about him, too. And been taking notes, apparently. The story is a magnificently written profile. It _humanizes_ Tony, moves past the flash and bravado.

What Tony can’t figure out is why Steve didn’t just tell him about the piece. From what he’s learned—from Steve, he thinks glumly—writers didn’t usually get to choose what they had to write. Steve had complained about a story he had to do very vaguely; could this be it?

Could it be that Steve only wanted to get to know him to get the greatest scoop?

Tony’s so wrapped up in reading that he doesn’t hear the shower turn off, only notices that any time has passed when he feels Steve’s warm hand on his shoulder. He smells fresh from the shower, using the soap Tony likes, the one he’d used one morning, and when Steve had smelled it on him, caused Tony to be late for his first two meetings of the day.

“You send your email?” Steve asks, rubbing a towel through his hair.

Tony shakes his head.

“Oh did it—” Steve leans forward to look at the screen.

At the same time, Tony stands up.

“Tony,” Steve says, grabbing his arm. Tony shakes it off, pulling on his shirt and grabbing his jacket from the floor.

“Tony, wait,” Steve says, trying and failing to get a grip on Tony’s arm.

Steve rushes ahead and stands in front of the door. “Please, let me explain.”

“I’m late,” Tony says, studiously avoiding Steve’s eyes and looking at the doorknob.

“It’s a good story, Tony, it’s good for you, for your PR,” Steve says, reaching out and touching his fingers to Tony’s chin. “Look at me, please,” he says, his voice small.

Tony shakes his head. “Let me go.”

“Everything that’s on there, it’s stuff I got from interviewing other people!” Steve says, throwing his hands up in the air. “I promise. I never used anything from when we were together.”

“I don’t care,” Tony says, his voice devoid of emotion. Truthfully, he doesn’t feel anything. Just a yawning abyss of emptiness. God, he needs a drink.

“Tony, please. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the story,” Steve says, trying to duck into Tony’s line of sight. “I couldn’t work up the nerve—I was afraid you’d react this way, and I’m sorry,” Steve says, trying again to take Tony’s hand in his.

“Stop it,” Tony says, reaching for the doorknob. There are no thoughts other than his immediate next step: leave.

“Okay,” Steve says, quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Fine,” Tony says, and slams the door shut.

Steve  
  
**Today** 9:48 AM  
I’m sorry, Tony. Can we meet to talk about this later?  
  
**Today** 10:35 AM  
I never sent the story. I wasn’t going to send it in without you being okay with it.  
  
I’m not sending the story in.  
  
Tony, please talk to me.  
  
**Today** 12:00 PM  
I hope you’re having lunch.  
  
**Today** 2:10 PM  
Can I drop by later? Please.  
  
**Today** 3:00 PM  
Tony, can you please answer your phone?  
  
**Today** 3:57 PM  
I’m sorry, Tony. Just let me know when you want to talk.  
  
Or if you want to talk at all.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha!!!! hello!!!!!!! i cried a little while writing this!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> also midway through this chapter i realized, like a FOOL, that Iron Man 1 has Tony mostly living in Malibu! OH WELL!!! i bet you didn't notice until i pointed that out right now, and we're all still having a good time
> 
> and, true to form i spent an... excessive amount of time wondering what album tony would choose, what is the middle space of the venn diagram of their music tastes??? and as i was looking through albums that came out in '06 and '07, i realized...... fucking hell, [THE NATIONAL, BOXER](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLiN-7mukU_RE_Ym_q5deAZk5zR6vh0DGV), THEIR MOST ICONIC RECORD, to which i screeched "OF COURSE, HOW COULD IT BE ANYTHING ELSE"
> 
> on another note, i'm really out here dropping 3 fics for 3 straight days who IS SHE


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please turn on creator style!
> 
> thank you riot, for cheering me through this chapter, and jen, for being such a great beta. :)

Tony  
  
**Friday** 3:57 PM  
I’m sorry, Tony. Just let me know when you want to talk.  
  
Or if you want to talk at all.  
  
**Saturday** 8:12 AM  
I know it’s early, but do you want to get coffee today?  
  
**Saturday** 9:34 PM  
Or tomorrow?  
  
**Sunday** 10:27 AM  
Hey Tony. Brunch?  
  
**Sunday** 10:27 AM  
I figure you haven’t blocked me yet and, honestly, I feel very selfish to be glad about that. I don’t know if you’re reading this. If you are, I want you to know how sorry I am. I want to say this all in person, explain to you why, and what I did. I’m sorry.  
  
**Tuesday** 1:15 PM  
I’m sorry.  
  
**Wednesday** 12:43 AM  
I know I should probably stop texting you at this point. I miss you. I’m sorry. I wish I could take it all back.  
  
**Today** 11:16 AM  
I thought of you again today. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so fucking sorry, Tony.  
  


It’s been a full week since Tony walked out of Steve’s apartment. A full week of complete radio silence, no responses to Steve’s texts or calls, no attendance to SI events… nothing. Like Tony had just dropped off the face of the earth.

Steve had tried, too, gone to the Marlin Cafe on the off chance that Tony would be there. He feels almost unhinged, desperate. If he and Tony have to end, he doesn’t want it to end this way.

It’s Friday evening and usually by now, he’d be packing up his things and racing to see Tony. He could try that, what’s one more desperate move after all the texts he’d sent, calls he’d made?

Steve makes his way to Tony’s building and waits. Sure, Tony’s never been one for schedules, but he has to come home _sometime_.

He’s been standing on the sidewalk for almost half an hour, trying and failing to read an article on his phone, when—miraculously—Tony’s town car pulls up on the curb.

Steve’s breath catches in his throat.

The car is idling, and the driver’s side door opens. Out steps Happy with a frown on his face.

“Happy,” Steve says urgently. “I need to see Tony.”

“Mr. Rogers,” Happy says, nodding at Steve. “Maybe you can set an appointment.”

“I—not for work,” Steve says, bewildered. Happy’s been bringing them everywhere for the better half of three months, surely he knows, or has figured out…?

“I believe you have Ms. Potts number,” Happy continues, as if Steve hadn’t spoken.

“Happy, please,” Steve says imploringly.

“Steve, I’m going to say this once, and I hope you don’t make me repeat myself,” Happy says, tone measured.

Steve swallows hard.

“Stop it.”

Steve shakes his head. “Happy, I—I need to apologize,” he says.

“And _he_ ,” Happy says, pointedly looking at the backseat window of the car, obscured by dark tint, “needs you to leave him alone.”

Steve wants to scream, wants to lash out, wants to run to the car and pry the door open, get on his knees and beg, maybe, but he can’t. Not now, with the crowds and everyone spilling out of work as the sun sets on Manhattan. Not ever, because Tony doesn’t deserve to be caught in a scandal.

So instead, Steve nods, looks at the car window, and walks away.

When he gets home, he turns on his laptop, drags seven files into a new email window, and types out:

From: srogers@nybulletin.com

Subject: Transcripts

To: tony.stark@starkindustries.com

Dear Tony,

I want you to know all the great things people have said about you. So here are transcripts of all the interviews I did.

I didn’t write anything about you that I hadn’t heard from anyone else. I never used you as a source. I’m sorry.

Steve

* * *

It’s been three weeks and Steve has done his very best to move past it, to accept that after everything that happened between him and Tony there’s nothing left.

At night he thinks of Tony, wonders if he’s sleeping, if he’s slept at all. He wonders if Tony thinks about him (unlikely, if photos from the paparazzi are anything to go by). He wonders if Tony’s okay. These musings tend to the yawning emptiness inside him, feeding the cavernous beast of grief in his chest. He’s made mistakes before, plenty of them. But this has got to be the worst.

Days pass in a blur. He tries to focus on his work, throws himself into research, interviews, events where Tony never shows up. It doesn’t help.

One evening, Steve drinks down the rest of his whiskey—a gift from Tony, the good stuff: Hibiki, from when he’d had to take a trip to Tokyo.

Steve cries. Sobs like a child, cradling the bottle to his chest and playing that record Tony had chosen.

He’s never fucked anything up this badly in his life. He deserves to be miserable.

* * *

Sometimes, Steve thinks about how they were before, before all of this—easy and sweet, happy and content. He should have known to cherish those moments closer, to make every minute with Tony last as long as he could. If only he’d thought ahead.

He’s so busy thinking about those afternoons he’d spent with Tony, wrapped up in his blankets, half-asleep and whispering to each other, kissing any silver of exposed flesh peeking out from underneath the blanket, that it takes a few seconds for him to focus on the photo Pete’s placed in front of him.

“Are those—” Steve starts, peering closer. “Where’d you get these?”

“A source,” Pete replies, looking at the picture rather than at Steve. “I’ll need you to verify this.”

“Wait, wait,” Steve says, physically backing up from Pete. “What?”

Pete looks up at Steve, eyebrow arched. “I will need you to verify what is in the photo,” he says, very slowly, as if Steve is hard of hearing.

“Pete,” Steve says, sitting back down on the chair. He cradles his head in his hands. “That’s one of the leaders of the Ten Rings.”

“Yes,” Pete says, patiently. He’s being much more patient than he usually is, which puts Steve even more on edge.

“I was supposed to write a story about possible money laundering!” Steve explodes, his exhaustion and worry from what happened to Tony yesterday spilling over and coloring everything. “It was supposed to be about how T—Mr. Stark never really actually controlled SI! And now you’re telling me—”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Pete says evenly. “We need to take care with this story, Steve. If this is really what the story is.”

Steve deflates. “But this… Pete,” Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. “This is war profiteering.”

Steve’s mind is racing. He needs to tell Tony. No he doesn’t, he doesn’t even know if this is—what else did this mean for the company? What else were they doing?

“Find out how much Stark knows about it,” Pete says, tapping the photo with his pen.

“I’ll need time,” Steve says, finally getting a handle on himself. “The amount of research this is going to take, that we’ll need to do even before we bring this to Stark—”

Pete pushes up his glasses, and slides the photo across the table. He taps the photo again. In the background, blurry but unmistakable: missiles.

“I’ll need—” Steve says, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. “I’ll need Jacob’s military contacts to check how recent the make of those things are,” he says.

“Sure. Tell him I gave you the go-ahead.”

Steve stands. He keeps his hand on the armchair, barely trusting his knees to hold him up. He tucks the photo into his notebook. “Do we know if the shipments—”

“Find out, Rogers. That’s what you’re here for,” Pete says, and swivels around to go back to typing on his laptop.

Steve knows a dismissal when he sees one. Still, it’s too much—there’s too much going on, he can barely think straight. He walks to his cubicle, functioning on autopilot, and checks his phone. Still no replies from Tony, but he can’t say he blames him. Even if he shouldn’t have snooped around, Something was going to give, either way.

He sighs, rubbing his temples.

Buckybear  
  
I know it’s gonna take a week for you to see these but I really just need to dump this all out so I can get to work  
  
1) Yes, I kept seeing Tony 2) Yes, he knows about the article 3) He found out about it because he saw it on my laptop (I offered to let him send an email, his phone died) 4) We have not spoken in almost a month 5) I am going to vomit  
  
6) I’m fine.  
  
I miss you, take care, talk to you soon, etc. etc.  
  


* * *

Time passes slowly, like it always does when Steve’s working on a story as in-depth as this. He spends his days moving between the archives, checking for old clippings that haven’t been digitized, and on his laptop, crunching numbers with a dogged determination to understand that only liberal arts majors that end up covering STEM fields understand.

Through the fog of numbers, names, investment reports and public documents of Stark Industries audits, Steve begins to see the faintest glimmer of a thread.

Jacob, who covers international relations, helps when he can. Some of his military contacts have confirmed the make and production period of the missiles in the photo—recent. Too recent, and there have been no reports of thefts or incursions.

There’s a lot of evidence, but not enough proof.

* * *

Steve stares at his phone and sucks in a breath. He’s typed and retyped the same message over and over again, in what he thinks is vain hope that Ms. Potts will respond to him, the same way she did all those months ago.

Pepper Potts - SI  
  
Good afternoon Ms. Potts, this is Steve Rogers from the New York Bulletin. We would like to request an interview with Mr. Stark regarding data we’ve gathered on Stark Industries business dealings, particularly on its military and non-military weapons contracts. Hope to hear from you soon. Thank you!  
  


Unsurprisingly, there is no response. Steve sighs, puts his phone away, and sends Pepper the same message, via email.

Steve’s having his first meal of the day at eight. The sun is low on the horizon, and the diner is slowly filling up with its usual patrons. Steve keeps an eye on the TV, waiting for the prime time news segment to begin.

He pushes his food around, disinterested, when the TV flashes.

**_Breaking news._ **

**_We have just confirmed reports that Stark Industries CEO Tony Stark was abducted in Afghanistan. Stark was in the country to launch and demonstrate his new missile technology. His convoy was attacked en route to Bagram Air Base. More news at Front Line at 8 o’clock._**

Steve stops breathing. He pulls out his wallet, tucks money under his plate, and stands. Everything feels like it’s in slow motion as the anchor’s words play and replay in his head. Abducted in Afghanistan. Attacked.

Uselessly, he reaches into his pocket and tries to call Tony. The line is dead. Then, he tries to call Bucky, who obviously doesn’t answer either, then Steve is running, sprinting—breathing hard as he covers the block, tears pooling behind his eyes as he waits for the elevator, and he has just enough time to compose himself before he enters the bull pen, where all the other reporters and editors are crowded around Jacob’s desk.

“I know just as much as you do!” Jacob shouts, looking worn out and as if he’s said it for the nth time. “No one knows who took Stark, or where he could be.”

Steve is standing stock-still beside everyone else.

“You’ve called Rhodes?”

“Of course I have!”

“Have you called Potts?”

All eyes turn to Steve.

“She hasn’t been responding,” Steve says, which isn’t exactly a lie; he hasn’t heard back from Ms. Potts at all. Still, he walks back to his desk and sends her a message, asking for comment.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't hear back from her.

Within the hour, Pete receives an email from SI’s team—standard fare when it comes to crises like these. It included phrases like “ultimate priority is locating Mr. Stark,” and “Obidiah Stane will once again take the mantle of interim-CEO during the search,” and “rest assured that Stark Industries will continue to provide quality service in all aspects of its business during this difficult time.”

It makes Steve want to vomit.

* * *

Bucky’s call takes Steve by surprise; it comes two days earlier than usual. Steve’s busy distracting himself with work and wearing a line into his rug through pacing when he gets the call.

“Bucky?”

“Hey, Stevie. How’s it hanging?”

“How—are you okay? Why are you calling?”

Bucky barks out a laugh, followed by a sharp wheeze. “Well, funny story.”

Steve stops pacing, then drops down onto his couch. “Bucky,” Steve says, anxiety beginning to claw at his throat. “What happened?”

Steve strains to listen as he hears sheets rustling, followed by a groan. “So, I read your texts before I called you up,” Bucky says. “Shoulda read them before I went on my mission. That way I coulda talked some sense into Tony for ya.”

Steve feels the world freeze and then tip over; he stops breathing.

“I’m fine, Steve,” Bucky says with a sigh. “I mean, I’m alive.”

“Start from the beginning,” Steve says shakily.

So Bucky does.

It was a standard operation, he tells Steve; tactical support for Tony Stark, presenting the Jericho missile in the middle of the desert. Easy stuff, especially because they’d secured the area beforehand. Still, Bucky says, they all should’ve known better than to think so.

Everyone in Stark’s Humvee was killed, and they were all pinned down—by the time the fight had stabilized, Stark was gone. Bucky was shot in the shoulder and the bone was shattered. He doesn’t know what that means for him yet.

They have a theory on which terrorist cell was behind this, but they were too well hidden, had little pockets of outposts spread across the countryside. It would take months to hunt them down. Bucky had met Stark’s friend, Lt. Colonel James Rhodes; he’d come to visit Bucky after the accident. He looked rough, too, patched up and sleepless. He led operations for the search.

Steve is silent.

“Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, breathing out slowly. “Thank god you’re alive, Buck.”

Bucky laughs. “Of course.”

The line goes quiet.

“I—this is a lot.”

“Yeah, but I’m fine, and they’ll find Stark, so just breathe, okay?”

“Yup, trying.”

“Wanna tell me about what you’re working on? I’m bored out of my mind here.”

With that, it feels like a dam breaks inside Steve, emotions pouring out and making him double over. “Bucky,” Steve says, tears welling up in his eyes. “I don’t know what the fuck to do, I can’t stop thinking about him, I’m so worried, and everything is just—“ a sob wracks out of Steve, unbidden, and then he’s clutching his face, crying into his hands.

“You could’ve died and I don’t know if he’s—and I never got to apologize—“ Steve says, broken. “Maybe if I’d told him what I was working on, if I’d just said, maybe he would have stayed, and listened—“

Bucky does his best to sound reassuring, which Steve knows is difficult. It makes him cry even more. He feels crazed with the mix of anxiety and grief, the worry that there was no way out of the hole he’d found himself in.

“We’ll find him,” Bucky murmurs, voice like a warm blanket. “And I’ll be alright, it’s all going to be okay, Steve, I promise.”

“You don’t know that!” Steve screams. “How could this ever be okay?”

“You’re right,” Bucky acquiesces. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

Steve cries some more, only stops when he feels wrung out and empty.

“Sorry, Buck,” he mumbles. “I should go. But text me, okay? Let me know how you’re doing, what’s happening with you.”

“Yeah, go, get some rest. Sounds like you need it,” Bucky says, a smile back in his voice.

Steve puts down the phone and stares at his ceiling until the sunlight fades and his apartment is dark.

* * *

From: srogers@nybulletin.com

Subject: Hello

To: tony.stark@starkindustries.com

Dear Tony,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, and it feels a little selfish of me to be emailing you, but I’m going to go crazy with worry if I don’t do something.

I miss you so much. I hope that you’re doing okay, that you’re alive, at the very least, and that your friend James Rhodes finds you soon. I hope you come home safe, and even if we never speak when you do, it will be enough for me to know that you’re alive, existing, and continuing to be the brilliant man that you are.

I’ve been trying to focus on work, but it’s hard, because I still keep writing about you—well, about Stark Industries, but it’s you that’s behind all those innovations that are still being introduced.

I miss you, Tony. I miss you every goddamn day. 

Steve

From: srogers@nybulletin.com

Subject: Two weeks

To: tony.stark@starkindustries.com

Dear Tony,

It’s been two weeks since you went missing. I don’t really know why I’m still emailing you. I guess it’s out of some misguided belief that you’ll read this, someday. 

God, I hope you get to read these someday.

I started writing the profile on you to get my editor Pete off my back. I had a much bigger story pending and I just hadn’t gotten around to doing the work for it. Or at least, enough work to write it. Pete was asking me for something about Stark Industries worth publishing. Get public interest up—not that it ever dipped. But he needed something fresh. And I realized that even if you’ve been under the spotlight since you were literally born, no one really knew you. At least, not really.

Looking back at it all now it feels stupid. I should’ve just put in more work. I don’t know. Honestly, after the research I’ve been doing, it feels like I should’ve tried harder to find the story.

I can’t help but think that if I did, maybe things wouldn’t be this way. I don’t know. What I do know is that I hope you’re safe, that you’re unhurt, and that Rhodes finds you soon.

Steve

From: srogers@nybulletin.com

Subject: One month

To: tony.stark@starkindustries.com

Dear Tony,

It’s been a month now.

I’ve been doing more research on that story I mentioned in my last email. It’s all still inconclusive. I wish you were here so I could just ask you (on the record, of course).

(Is it too soon to make that joke?)

Anyway. I have to head to editorial in a bit. I wanted to write to let you know that I’m getting close. If only someone in Stark Industries would take my calls, huh? Then I’d be pretty golden with this story.

Steve

From: srogers@nybulletin.com

Subject: A month and three weeks

To: tony.stark@starkindustries.com

Dear Tony,

Funny that the world keeps spinning, isn’t it? I attended a Stark Industries event today. They launched the new phone. The last one you designed, apparently, before everything.

I might have cried, I don’t know. Who am I kidding? There’s no point pretending. I don’t even know if you’ll read this. Anyway. Yeah, I cried. Shut up about it.

It’s just that it hardly seems fair, that the world keeps spinning, that everything continues despite your absence. Not that I think there should be a memorial or something, because that would mean you were dead, and I can’t accept that. I refuse to.

Also if you were actually dead then SI would’ve made an announcement, there’s really no reason for them to keep it secret. So I’ll have to be optimistic about this.

Steve

From: srogers@nybulletin.com

Subject: Two months, two weeks

To: tony.stark@starkindustries.com

Dear Tony,

I forgot to mention that Bucky was part of the unit assigned to protect you in Afghanistan. Obviously he didn’t do a very good job of it, and then he got himself shot for all his trouble.

He’s on his way back home, they need to operate because some bones are displaced and it would be useless to keep him on base. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d lost you both. 

It’ll be good to have him back, if only to add another thing to help distract me from the reality that we’re dangerously close to three months since the attack. I don’t know, Tony. I don’t know what to do anymore.

Steve

From: srogers@nybulletin.com

Subject: Three months

To: tony.stark@starkindustries.com

Come home, please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 things:  
> 1) i THINK i should be done with this by next chapter. hehe.  
> 2) writing this was difficult - i missed writing tony, lmao. i'd love to know what you think. :)  
> 3) i used la_temperaza's [tutorials](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7953412) for how to make the emails and texts! :)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://firebrands.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/firebrandss)!


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